Intentions
by Weaver of the Tangled Web
Summary: Hell is paved with good intentions, roofed in with lost opportunities. A oneshot, Leroux characters.


Intentions

He had not intended to enter her room, when he had walked down the hall. He had wanted only to be near to her, to lean his forehead against that door and imagine her on the other side of it, curled beneath the thick covers of that luxurious bed—but her breathing was shallow, and the moan of a dreamer in plight had reached those sharp ears, and thus had he entered, for the sake of checking on her.

Silent feet carried him to the side of her bed, to allow those burning orbs to look down upon her sleeping form. Her lips were turned down, her forehead creased in a frown. Gently the notes slipped free into the night air, as gentle as the caresses he so longed to—and dared not to—grant to that porcelain skin. They calmed her, some, though still the occasional whimper would escape from those moist, soft, parted lips.

She was cold. The covers were bundled up around her ears, and still she shivered. Her tiny form had curled itself into a ball of trembling flesh, limbs tucked around limbs tucked around limbs—and still she shivered. The icy carcass could offer her no warmth, but still he could do nothing but wish to wrap her in his own arms and comfort her. So long did he stand above her, wishing and dreaming of a world in which he could grant her such a favor, that it began to appear possible. It was true that, upon touching her, his skin lit up like a flame. If he were to lie alongside her, surely his entire body would become the same furnace that his fingertips had become in the past, during the course of their furtive brushes with her skin—a shoulder, a finger, the apex of one glorious curl, each touch so gentle that she could never have known of its reality.

Cloak and jacket were dropped to rest atop the carpet; toe was pressed to heel to remove his shoes. Slowly, carefully, he eased himself down onto the bed, and beneath the covers. Barely had he begun to settle alongside her, when he felt that now-familiar sensation flood through his limbs: heat. Every inch of him tingled with that feeling, every skin cell rejoicing in its newfound life. His heat radiated from him, just as hers did (when she was not so cold, at least); when her sleeping form realized that heat, it immediately migrated closer to him. That petite frame snuggled against him, one arm going around his waist, one leg entwining with his own two. Her cheek pressed against his chest, the top of her head coming to rest just beneath his left jaw.

The mask pressed uncomfortably against his jawbone, caught beneath his face and her head. The notion of removing it was never even touched upon; instead, his fingers slipped beneath its edge, and pushed it up on his face ever so slightly, successfully clearing it of her head and still not revealing more than the tiniest sliver of dead flesh.

Her smell overwhelmed him, wrapping around his senses and devouring his thoughts. His arms slowly wrapped around her, tucking her against him and clutching with painful desperation. Her perfection was very nearly unbelievable; the sensation of curls against the skin of his neck—of smooth, angelic skin against his chest—of that sweet hand and its tiny fingers curled around his ribs—of that muscular dancer's leg clinging to his own... His mind toyed with the sound of her voice, curling metaphorical fingers around that golden chord of sound.

She was everything. His body belonged there in her arms, and he knew it with unerring certainty. He was nothing without her, had never been and could never be. And there, in the darkness, with her safely tucked within a dream, he could pretend that she knew he was there. He entertained that beautiful, perfect pretense, manipulating it until he almost believed it. She was his wife—his real wife—his living bride—and he was hers. Perhaps a child slept peacefully down the hall; perhaps nightbirds sang outside an imaginary window above the headboard; perhaps a happy home waited outside of that bedroom door, instead of a dreary prison hidden away beneath an opera house.

Pain seared through him as he realized the insanity of that dream, the impossibility of it. He would never have her, and she would never want him. Not only was lying here with her a mockery, but keeping her within his home was, as well. Fifteen days she had been here; fifteen days, they had moved together, existing in near-harmony, and still he caught the steady flow of repulsion whenever she looked at him. She believed she had fooled him, when she had told him she shivered only with amazement at his genius; he allowed her to believe it. He wanted to believe it, as well; he allowed his mind to replay those words over and again, and his heart beat proudly even as his mind denied the honesty behind those words.

She shivered with hatred, with disgust, and never would that change. If he kept her there throughout her own golden years, until the moment that she lay upon her death bed, still as he bent over her to kiss her into death, she would give one last shudder before releasing her death-sigh.

It was time to take her back, to release her as he had told the Persian he would, and to see if she would return to him.

_If you love something, let it fly free. If it should return to you, you know it loves you too... _Such a simple child's phrase, and yet so viciously truthful...

With this dreary weight hanging in his chest, he began to remove himself from her; stubbornly, her arms tightened around him, forcing him to remain next to her. Bitterly, he realized she must have been dreaming of her Vicomte, for her lips had begun to curve in a smile, and her forehead had smoothed.

When his arms released her, she immediately began to curl back into a ball. Immediately his heart was endeared to her, and his arms again gathered her up against him. He could not leave her in the cold, no matter how painful looking at her could be. Until morning, he would lie with her, and then he would take her back. He would return her to her room, replace her on her bed, allow himself a final brush of fingertips against flawless skin, before retreating to the house on the lake to await the moment of truth.

In the morning. In the morning, he would take her.

Of course, she would desire breakfast—perhaps he would wait until midmorning.

By midmorning, it would be nearly time for dinner—perhaps he would wait until afternoon.

But by afternoon, it would be nearly suppertime—perhaps...

No.

No, he would have to take her back before breakfast, or otherwise he feared he would never manage to return her. One meal would turn into one day; one day, one week; one week, one month; and then the Persian would never believe that she stayed of her own will.

Of course, she did not stay of her own will, really, though his own prideful tongue had declared it so, and gotten him into a mess once more.

Christine stirred, and her face rose to look at him. Frightened, he rolled his eyes to view her—and, thankfully, found her eyes closed. With a quiet smile, he continued to admire her sleeping form. He began to sing to her again, and she again nestled her face down against his neck, relaxing once more. Silently he prayed she would not awaken; he could not bear, at such a perfect moment as this, to see fear and hatred once more written across that perfect countenance.

In the morning, then, before she had awakened. He would carry her back to her room, for if he waited for her to wake, he would hear that voice, and who knew how he could release her when that beautiful voice was singing in his ear? If she was awake, he would see the joy in her eyes as she returned to the main floor. He could not stand to see that joy, could not stomach exuberance upon their parting. Even the notion of parting with her for a day seemed as if it would kill him. What if she never returned?

He did not have to ask that question. He would die, without her. It was no dramatic and unrealistic declaration; she had become his life-force, his one and only everything, his only purpose for living. His oxygen, his blood, the rhythm of his heart and the force that drove the movements of his body. If she left him, there would be nothing left, within or without. _Don Juan Triumphant _had once felt like this; now, he knew that work to be a trivial, meaningless piece of nothingness—compared to her, all fell short.

"Christine," he whispered—and shortly following that title were the words he had sworn he would not repeat to her again, not until she gave him leave: "_Je t'aime_..."

Words slipped from between her sleeping lips, mumbled and distorted beyond recognition. One hand gently brushed her curls back from her face, and again those lips moved against the skin of his neck. "Erik..." –followed by more mumbles.

His muscles tensed. She knew he was there? Perhaps she only dreamt; perhaps it was merely coincidence. "Christine?" he called, ever so very quietly.

"Erik," she repeated, voice just as muffled. No words followed, and shortly afterwards, he heard the steady breathing of one caught within deep sleep.

Even that short exchange supplied those distorted lips with a tear-spoiled smile.


End file.
